


More Than Bargained For

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Not Quite Cheating [3]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Cuckolding, Cheating, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Guilt, M/M, Mild Cock & Ball Torture, Pregnancy Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Teasing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21916999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: This isn't what Frank expected.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Nathan Summers, Frank Castle/Stryfe (Marvel), Stryfe/Nathan Summers
Series: Not Quite Cheating [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578514
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	More Than Bargained For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).



> For Inbox, the source of all the best ideas.

Honestly, this was not how Frank had imagined this would go if Stryfe ever contacted him again. 

He'd have expected better from himself, but honestly, was it any surprise that in the actual moment, he just felt stupid and flighty? It had taken him an age just to tell Nathan it had happened the first time. There'd been all that weighing of pros and cons, a lot of valuing rights against wrongs, but in the end doing anything other than telling Nathan had been impossible, and so he'd done it. 

And it had gone well. It had gone so well that Frank had decided to just latch on to the good of that resolution and pretend, laying in his stupid indulgence of a bed with Nathan beside him, that the problem was wholly, resoundingly resolved. What had happened had happened but it changed nothing and was over. 

Frank had a talent for pushing things out of his mind, compartmentalizing and prioritizing what he allowed himself to think about. It was a necessary skill in his line of work. He carried on with his life, carried out his war, and if there were a few fantasies he indulged in on some of those longer, lonelier nights, fantasies about silk and lace and hands that were crueler than Nathan would ever really be, well, Frank could just about live with that. 

So the text, when it comes, catches him unaware. A rare moment of quiet, the night after cleaning up from the end a big job. All the usual shit has been finished, gear stowed, everything ready to roll out for the next mission. He's cleaned up for the first time in nearly a month, finally back in his own fucking bed. Living for the mission makes a man really appreciate small things, like a secure place to hunker down and rest for a few days before shipping out again. 

It’s dark, almost midnight, and he's restless. The first night of downtime, he always is, waiting for a threat to make itself known, for the hell of the last few weeks to reassert itself. But it's peaceful, here; the nighttime noise from the neighboring warehouses muted and indistinct, traffic too far off to hear. All that together makes the buzz of his phone from the bedside table seem obnoxiously loud.

His first impulse, grabbing the phone to silence it, was to simply ignore the text. It's just after midnight and the message is from an unknown number, phrased in such a way that he tries gamely to tell himself it's a miss-dial. 

[RECEIVED 2405: Does your husband know what you do when he's away?] 

A question that rings with such smug condescension that Frank almost can't _help_ thinking it over and over, mind easily supplying Stryfe's dry, superior tone. With the phone closed and set aside, he's stuck laying there, alone in his bed, staring into the dark. _It's a wrong number,_ he tells himself, _just ignore it. It's just a wrong number. Even if it's not, nothing good lies in hiking down that road._

Then a second text comes, his phone buzzing in his hand. 

[RECEIVED 2407: Pretty girls shouldn't have to sleep alone, Mrs Summers.]

Reading that one, he can hear Stryfe so clearly in his head that it sparks a mild panic. He sits straight up in his bed, alone with the sudden, inexplicable but unshakable certainty that the bastard wasn't just texting but was somehow physically _there_ , pulling telepathic bullshit. 

Texting back felt, in the moment, like the only way he could possibly reestablish any sense of control over the situation. And he needs that, suddenly, even just the barest hint of control. His reply isn't exactly eloquent. 

[SENT 2407: what the fuck do you want]

[RECEIVED 2408: No need for hostility.]

[RECEIVED 2408: I promised I would give you what he won't.]

[RECEIVED 2408: It's time to fill that promise.]

That's enough to put Frank's heart in his throat, makes him feel like he's about to choke on a number of undefined, squirming emotions. The implication that Stryfe expected immediate and eager compliance is only part of it. His own hesitation at saying no and shutting the whole thing down -- or even just putting some kind of resistance in -- that's a much bigger part of it. He should, he knows; he shouldn't even reply to that, he should burn the phone, get a new number, figure out what he needs to do to put a bullet in the asshole's head and end this shit.

It's shameful, how interested another part of him is in the prospect of seeing Nathan's crueler duplicate again. That interested side of him is happy to chew over all the possibilities behind the phrase 'give you what he won't'. 

[SENT 2409: get fucked]

[RECEIVED 2409: Yes, that's the idea.]

That’s really the point where Frank starts worrying over calling Cable. Should he call, and when? If he was going to drag Nathan into this, shouldn't he have done so already? Wasn't it incriminating, for him to have waited, for him to have answered Stryfe and then carried on something of a conversation before going to him. It was only a few messages, but that was enough, more than enough, for Nathan to know. Nathan wouldn't be angry about it, surely, but then again, part of him... oh, part of him is interested in _that_ , too, in Nathan being jealous of just the idea of Frank being interested in Stryfe, and --

God, this is too complicated. Maybe it was better to send Stryfe packing, so to speak, before bringing Nathan into the situation, just take care of this himself and then... then _report_ it. More professional like, even if this doesn't exactly fit into their business relationship; better to keep himself from presuming that Nathan has any emotional stake in this at all. 

He twists that all around in his head a fair few times, minutes passing as he lingered and dithered and languished over the merits of his options. Ultimately, what he realized was that, whatever he _should_ have done earlier, all he _could_ do now was tell Nathan what was going on. 

Because he'd have to tell him eventually anyway, and maybe they didn't have a real… relationship, not in a romantic sense, but if Frank owed that kind of transparent honesty to anyone, it was Nathan.

So, whether or not he should have messaged Nathan after the first text came in, before ever responding to Stryfe, it wasn't like he could change the choice he'd made. That was done. And the worst that could come of messaging Nathan now was Nathan getting pissed about the delay. More likely, he'd tell Frank to end the conversation with Stryfe and get a new phone. Either way, Nathan would have better insight on what to do, and... and it was the _right_ thing. The less underhanded thing, less like going behind Nathan's back this way, to be open at the start of things. 

Perhaps, a part of him thinks -- not hopes, he's certain that hesitance in him isn't anything so sweet or so dangerous as _hope_ \-- Nathan would tell him it was better to play Stryfe's game. At least over the phone, keep him on the line, on the hook. String him along. Have some way to contact him. Surely there was some tactical merit to that.

The important thing wasn't so much what Nathan told him to do, it was that he wasn't going to wait to tell Nathan. It's calming, honestly, to have a clear course of action in mind; calming enough that he barely glances at the messages Stryfe has sent while he was mentally tussling with himself. 

[RECEIVED 2412: I know you're all alone there Mrs Summers.]

[RECEIVED 2413: And I know what you need tonight.]

Not worth thinking about, just unimportant words that Frank has zero opinion on. He switches over to a new message for Nathan. The blank screen has a calming effect; he can focus on the task of punching in his message. It's easier to block out the anxiety of Stryfe's words if he can't see them.

The fact that he hasn't received a message from Nathan in over a week means nothing and he feels nothing about it, because he and Nathan are both busy and they don't exactly have time to sit around texting each other. He only wastes a few moments checking and double checking that he's sending his message to this conversation, not the one with Stryfe before sending anything.

[SENT 2415: your clone is sniffing around again]

His phone buzzes a few moments later, and there's a glimpse of the new message from Stryfe, but he ignores it. No point, not until he hears from Nathan. 

After a few long minutes, Frank starts to worry that Nathan's asleep or working or doesn't have his phone with him. There's a dozen immediate thoughts of what Nathan could be doing right now that would guarantee that he wouldn't get Frank's message in time to offer and meaningful advice, and Frank feels a surge of guilty self-loathing at the arrogance of thinking Cable would drop anything to help him with something that is very clearly his own personal problem.

Then, almost immediately upon starting to berate himself for being such an idiot, Nathan finally answers. 

[RECEIVED 2419: You can handle him. I trust you.]

That's a whole lot less fucking helpful than Frank was hoping for.

Huffing a sigh, rubbing the heel of his hands against his eyes, Frank gets up and flips on the overhead light, telling himself he’s not pacing as he circles the room before sitting back on the edge of the bed. After a second, he flips his phone open again and opens the unread message from Stryfe.

[RECEIVED 2416: Don’t tell me you went to ask permission.]

Smug bastard. It might smart less if it wasn’t approaching the truth, though ‘permission’ was a stretch. ‘Back up’ or ‘support’ would be more accurate, but he’d be damned if he admitted to seeking those, either. 

It takes him a moment to decide how to play this. Because it’s clear to him, just as it was clear when they were face to face in that hotel room, that he’s going to play whatever game this is. Nathan all but told him to go ahead. Nathan hadn’t been pissed finding out about Stryfe’s attempt to trick Frank nor about Frank going through with it.

No, Nathan had been _excited_ by it, he’d latched onto the idea of skimpy underwear and Frank being so damn horny he couldn’t help stepping out on him, and it -- 

Frank feels his thighs tense and his knees push together, a thread of arousal curling in his gut at the memory of how damn quick Nathan had gone from teasing to desperate for it. The idea of being able to do that again, go to him for forgiveness for being too horny to say no when Nathan couldn’t be there, shamefaced but willing to do anything Nathan wants to make it up to him -- yeah, he’s willing to play that game.

[SENT 2423: i don’t ask permission]

[RECEIVED 2424: Of course not.]

[RECEIVED 2425: All alone on such a nice night I’m sure you just dozed off for 10 minutes.]

He can _hear_ the bastard laughing at him. How the fuck that works when he's only met him the once, Frank doesn't like to think too hard about. Maybe because it feels too much like a betrayal to Nathan, or maybe because the laugh ringing in his mental ear _is_ Nathan's, that particular mean growl he gets when he’s about to do something nasty he knows Frank will enjoy. 

Swallowing against the tightness in his throat and ignoring the heat built in his face, he makes himself type a response, wishing suddenly that he had sprung for the pricier phone with the tiny keypad, the one clearly made for text. 

[SENT 2425: was cleaning up]

A tolerable falsehood. If Stryfe was hoping to meet up tonight, it would take time to get wherever he planned on shacking up. Frank had showered hours ago, spent what would usually be considered an inordinate amount of time luxuriating in the hot running water and the way it soothed through the surface aches of overworked, overtaxed muscles. Short as his hair was, it wasn't like he was going to show up anywhere still damp, and unless Stryfe felt like digging through his brain for it -- and who really gave a shit if he did? -- there would be no way of telling when he'd showered.

[RECEIVED 2426: Got yourself all prettied up? Ready for a special night?]

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Frank scowls, brows drawing together as he grunts softly to himself. Sometimes Nathan did shit like this too, leading questions that didn't make a goddamn lick of sense other than stating the obvious in the worst way possible. It's a game he hasn't exactly figured out the point of, unless the point it to leave him feeling annoyed and vaguely embarrassed. 

After a moment with no follow up, he taps out his reply. 

[SENT 2427: thought that was the point of you bothering me]

[RECEIVED 2427: So invite me over, Frank.]

Unexpected. Frank finds himself staring at the message, the wind knocked out of his proverbial sails. Somehow it makes him feel off kilter and vaguely alarmed, the idea of asking Stryfe... Nathan makes him ask, sometimes, but that's different, _everything_ with Nathan is different, safer, trusted. The idea of bringing Stryfe here sends a sick thrill through him, one almost perfectly explained by the next incoming message.

[RECEIVED 2427: I want to fuck you in the bed he fucks you in.]

[RECEIVED 2428: I want to show you everything you've been missing right where he could have given it to you 100 times before.]

Frank flips the phone closed and holds it shut tight in his palm like it might escape if he's not careful. His heart is slamming against his ribs suddenly, a desperate, uncontrollable rhythm he can do nothing to tame. He feels hot all over, alarmed by the strength of his own reaction to the idea. He _likes_ the idea, which feels like a problem for a number of moral reasons he's not entirely sure matter. He feels _guilty_ despite knowing perfectly well that there's little reason to. 

He knows, perfectly well, that it's beyond stupid to give someone like Stryfe -- someone who hadn't hesitated to make it clear that he wanted to be considered a threat and absolutely was one -- access to any of the safe houses he had. Especially this one. 

This is the closest thing to a home he’s had in the city in _years_ . Decades. It's his base, it's the place he thinks of when he's three weeks deep in a messy job and aching for a night, just one night, of real sleep. The only person he's trusted enough to share this space was Nathan, and him only after years of working together. Nathan had worked with him, proven himself trustworthy over and over, gone through hell and back enough times to show that this _thing_ between them wasn't fragile, wasn't going to fling apart without a damn lot of strain.

Bringing Stryfe here is a stupid, stupid risk.

And that's part of why he wants to let it happen. 

Something about the _idea_ of that risk has him half hard and flushed up hot. The idea of being fucked rough in his own bed by someone who looks and sounds like Nathan but _isn’t_ , who would lord it over him that he was stupid enough, hard up enough, _slutty-filthy-dick-drunk-dumb enough_ to agree to it... just the idea is so good he could probably get himself off to it in record time.

It feels like his heart is slamming rapid fire against his ribs, staccato gunfire from the center of him as he forces himself to open the phone again. Cable had said he trusted Frank to handle this. Frank can handle it.

[SENT 2431: i cant]

Just saying that feels like a misstep in a game he doesn’t completely understand how to play. It feels like saying no to everything instead of only part, and he’s suddenly consumed by the fear that Stryfe will -- what exactly? Be annoyed? Drop the conversation? 

That should be the _goal_ and realizing that the idea is _disappointing_ is another jolt for Frank, awkward arousal surging as he tries to figure out a follow up to that last message that makes his intent perfectly clear. He wants to meet up, is willing to travel, but they can’t do this here. Another message buzzes in before he can find words, and his mouth goes dry.

[RECEIVED 2434: I know where you are. I'm not far.]

[RECEIVED 2434: All you have to do is let me in.]

Does that change anything? If Stryfe really knows about this place, does it matter if Frank _lets him_ come in? If he knows where it is, chances are he could pick the security codes out of Frank’s head anywhere they did meet. Just that fact should kibosh the whole thing, not have him sitting up like a desperate dog ready to beg for his treat. 

The only place more _his_ , the only place that feels more like a _home_ is the cabin upstate, tidy little two-room job so far off the road and surrounded by so much wilderness it felt, when he was there, like he was the only man on the planet. That’s too far from the city too make a headquarters of, too remote to be anything but the last resort of escapism, when the war’s taken too much out of him and it’s lay low or blow up. 

From here, he’s central, he’s in the middle of everything he needs to be in the middle of. There’s electricity here, and he doesn’t have to drag fuel in to power a generator to get it. Running water. He’s got a fucking _mattress_ here, indulgent and sinfully comfortable on his aching back. It’s _his_.

He wouldn’t be willing to burn any of his other boltholes for a fuck, and none of them would work for it anyway. Bad as he wants to get fucked, he knows damn well a camping cot or air mattress would fuck his back all to hell. If he doesn’t want to burn one of the emergency safe houses, he sure as hell doesn’t want to lose this place. 

[RECEIVED 2435: I’m not asking for a key. Just an open door.]

Reckless. This whole thing is just breathtakingly idiotic. Nothing good can come of taking a risk like this, but it's the risk of it that has his blood up. He's more aroused than he's been since... well since he asked Nathan to come over to talk about the _first_ time Stryfe pulled this shit. Some twisted up thing in him takes the sense of nervy agitation that surrounds the concept of risk and _demands_ he step up to the challenge. Maybe it's the fallout adrenaline from the recently completed job, catching up hours after he thought he'd settled, or maybe it's just the idea of how many horrible ways this could go wrong. 

Maybe it's just the part of him that always bristles at the idea of backing out of dare.

Because that's what this is. All it is. It's a dare, dangled in front of him, Stryfe telling him he knows the location and how to get to him, but that he can't walk in without Frank _letting_ him. Knowing that Frank would have to weigh the risk of it and then decide to value to promise of a good fuck over the danger. 

And part of him -- way more of him than he would have thought, _does_ value the idea of what he and Stryfe could get up to here over the security of a known, comfortable place to play house away from his unending, unwinnable war. Because there are other places he could turn over, places that could become what this place is. 

He could have this, if he works it right. If he's careful. 

[RECEIVED 2436: Wouldn't Nathan be surprised to come home to his pretty wife all fat and pregnant?]

[RECEIVED 2437: Don't you want to give him that?]

Fuck.

It's stupid beyond words, and he's rock hard just thinking about it. The memory of Stryfe's hands on him, his teeth digging into the flesh and tendon of Frank's neck, biting like he wanted blood, leaving marks so dark and deep it had felt like they'd never fade. And Nathan, weeks later, scouring through his mind for every scrap of detail and getting so goddamn worked up just from the memory that he'd just about creamed his jeans before they could even get off the couch. 

There's no justifying stupidity. He's either going to do this or he's not. Chicken out, or accept the risk. He's not dumb enough to think Stryfe will bargain; half the fun for the bastard is making Frank chose to do something ridiculous in the name of getting laid.

[SENT 2438: you've got 15 minutes. then security goes up]

At least here he's got weapons. He knows where everything is, knows what's in reach anywhere they end up. Home turf advantage, for whatever the hell that's worth.

Pulling his trousers on has never been more uncomfortable, even counting the times he's done it over broken bones. He counts this in his favour, discomfort serving to dampen his arousal a little as blood starts flowing to the rest of his body and away from his dick. He still feels inconsolably horny, but it's less a desperate need and more a cloying sort of want. 

He can work with wanting, and he's fine with not getting what he wants. 

Still, it's not enough to make him rethink this. It's the work of a few minutes to cut the security on the gate at the end of the service drive and disarm the proximity traps buried under the gravel between the warehouse itself and the gate. He leaves the surveillance cameras and the electric fence that separates the building from the docks to the west. All the protection on the exterior storage units he also leaves in place, because while he's clearly dumber than a box of hair, he's looking to get fucked, not robbed blind. If Stryfe tries to snoop around and gets his ass blown to hell, Frank's not exactly going to be sad about it.

With a clear path made between the access road and the warehouse, there's nothing to do but wait, hovering by the main power switch for the gate and watching minutes tick slowly past on the little digital clock his phone provides. Part of him, the rational part, knows he should flip the power back on immediately, rearm the system, and ditch the phone. 

Instead, he waits, nothing on him as he watches the grainy security feed but a single handgun and a hunting knife buckled under the edge of the table. He knows how stupid he's being, and when he sees a familiar bulky frame approaching the gate, his fingers twitch toward the switches. It's a conscious effort to stay his hand, heart slamming again as Stryfe pushes through the gate.

That's it then. He's really letting this happen.

 _Of course you are,_ Stryfe's voice purrs in his head, soft and sly. _Didn't I tell you sluts like you always get desperate in the end?_

Teeth grit, Frank focuses on projecting a 'fuck you' as loudly as he can, pretending he can't feel Stryfe's amusement, colder and meaner than Nathan's ever is, echoing in his head. When the asshole ambles toward the door, Frank flicks the power back on to the gate and goes to meet him.

It feels bizarre, opening the door and gesturing for Stryfe to hurry up, glancing into the dark like anyone's going to see. He feels insanely like he's sneaking around his own fucking property, trying to do this without being seen. There's no one to notice, no one to give a shit, and he can tell by the knowing smirk on Stryfe's face that he can tell exactly where Frank's mind is at.

"Worried your husband will come home early," Stryfe asks smugly, and has the gall to laugh when Frank tells him to shut the fuck up and come upstairs. They're not sneaking around, there's nothing _to_ sneak around; what he and Nathan have isn't... it isn't committed like that. They both see other people, whatever games they play when they can find the time to be alone together.

Stryfe, leading the way up the stairs from the warehouse floor to the offices Frank's converted to a living space, tsks at that though. Prick probably hasn't stopped squatting in the back of Frank's head since he got close enough to slip inside. 

"You really _are_ going to break poor Nathan's heart," he says, sounding anything but sorry about the idea. "His sweet wife, sneaking behind his back and telling herself she isn't married in the first place."

Telling the asshole to shut the fuck up again might hold more venom if Frank could keep his face from going red at the same time. Hard to pretend that he doesn't care when every physical response from him shows clearly how much he does.

Instead, he pushes Stryfe through the sitting room and into the bedroom, bed rucked up from his attempt to sleep, and then watches Stryfe assess the space, sharp eyes taking in everything in a quick glance before he drops himself on the bed and grins at Frank.

"You poor thing, rolling around this big bed all alone. Come here."

There's really no point in fucking around about it at this point. It's alarming, actually, how easy it is, alone in his own bed with this strange, cruel version of Nathan, to convince himself to stop worrying about all the reasons this is stupid and all the ways it could go horribly, violently wrong. Stryfe kisses him and slips his hand down the back of his pants and all Frank can think is that Cable will like hearing about this, he'll enjoy how eager Frank was to hand himself over.

And kissing Stryfe is good, it's everything he likes about kissing Nathan mixed with a sort of possessive entitlement that makes an animal part of Frank bristle, snarling and excited. He ends up pulled down into Stryfe's lap, straddling him, held by hands that are strong enough to be threatening but still soft. 

Nathan's hands are calloused, littered with all the tactile signs of a man who spends most of his time working with guns and has no time for skincare. Stryfe's hands are the same shape, same weight, but softened, manicured nails scraping over flesh, the calluses that _are_ present in different places than Nathan's.

Weird and almost certainly inappropriate, how much that turns Frank on. Stryfe holds his head at the angle he wants, controlling every aspect of the exchange down to how much air Frank's able to sneak and when. It feels good, the hand on his ass gripping tight and the one in his hair tugging just enough to ache. Frank wants his pants off, wants the foreplay done so he can have what he's been thinking about since that first text came in. 

_Eager little slut._ Stryfe's voice in Frank's head is condescending and unbearably smug, enough that Frank wants to snap back something mean, but there's the barest bleed of something else under that, too, something that Frank likes more than he thinks he should. It's a giddy sort of glee, a childish sense of getting away with something naughty, and Frank's uncertain whether Stryfe means for him to pick up on that or not. Somehow that, the not knowing, translates as both pervasive and arousing, seeping into Frank's own mood as Stryfe bites at his lips; the sense of being something Nathan and Stryfe fight over, the idea of being a toy owned by one and coveted by the other, caught between them...

It's sexy, makes him feel hot, shiver working up from the base of his spine. There's never been a moment in his life where he expected to sit passive while others fought over him, and somehow the idea of it makes him feel both helpless and powerful, objectified and sexual and _hungry._

 _Just listen to you,_ Stryfe laughs, kissing under Frank's jaw and finding his way to that spot again, that perfect tender spot where even the hardest bite feels like blinding, overwhelming pleasure. _You want to be our toy, want to be a pretty thing we own and fight over so badly. Just desperate for it, aren't you?_

Frank's breath comes in thin gasps, his dick aching. It's been too long, he hasn't had a good fuck -- hasn't had even a mediocre fuck -- since before the last job. Months ago, that had have been. He can't touch himself and Stryfe's certainly not interested in doing anything other than teasing. Frank wants to snarl at that -- certainly the violence in him is straining it's chains, snapping at the idea of being property and at being strung along all this way just for Stryfe to try to bait him into further debasement, but he thinks if he's good, maybe Stryfe will give him what he wants. 

He knows what Stryfe's looking for with that shit. He knows what he wants -- he wants the same shit Nathan always wants when he asks baiting questions like that; he wants Frank to whine and struggle a little and let him keep pushing until Frank can't take it anymore. He wants Frank worked up and begging, desperate like he can't get this anywhere else.

Stryfe laughs against his throat, hot little breaths against spit-damp skin before he kisses the mark one more time and leans back. "You _can't_ get this anywhere else, Mrs. Summers. That's the whole point."

Implying that Frank should be grateful for this. Stryfe speaks like he's doing Frank a favour that just happens to have some marginal benefit to him, and Frank knows better than to think about that too hard because Stryfe will without a doubt tell him he's right. Like Frank's a dog on a short lead, steered by those hands firmly from one mark to another, and that shouldn't be hot but it is.

It is.

"Thought you came here to fuck me," Frank asks roughly, voice betraying his own eagerness. He sounds shaken, and the twitch of Stryfe's lips toward a smile says the bastard hears it too. "Thought you were going to show me what I've been missing."

Not begging, but not hiding how bad he wants this very well, either. Frank can tell Stryfe likes it, likes having Frank like this. He's not so different from Nathan, and somehow it's even easier to see that when he's not trying to use an image inducer to fuck with Frank's head. They both want to make Frank squirm, hear him beg, lay him low for want of a good fuck. Nathan's just nicer about how he works Frank over; Nathan's just the kind of guy Frank wants to fall asleep with after.

Frank gets a slap for that, the hand that had been curled against the back of his neck cracking open-palmed across his face. It shocks him, both the bright little bite of pain and the infuriating dismissal of such a casual strike. 

"Oh, don't look so hurt. I told you last time, you've been granted the privilege of having me in your bed; you don't think about a lesser man when I'm with you."

"At least he fucks me when he says he's going to," Frank bites back, and then shouts as he hits the floor, shoved off Stryfe's lap and held immobile by invisible force. It doesn't hurt the way he thinks it should, falling backward that way, and it doesn't matter how he tries to pull against the force holding him, he can't so much as wiggle a finger. 

"I know what you want and how badly you need it," Stryfe says, standing over him. He doesn't even have the good grace to look rumpled after all that, his clothes stretched to fit like they were stitched with him in mind. Somehow that makes the very obvious arousal tightening the crotch of his jeans more gratifying to see; a lack of that perfect control. "I came all this way just to give it to you. When are you going to start showing a little gratitude?"

Frank can't speak like this, held perfectly in Stryfe's telekinetic grip, but he knows damn well the son of a bitch is still poking around his head. 

_Give me something to be grateful for, then_ , he thinks, and then gasps desperately as Stryfe's booted foot asserts itself between his legs, stepping down on him just enough to send a jolt of pain straight into his guts. It aches but it feels so good, too, enough so that Frank wants to squirm away, but of course he can't. Stryfe keeps him right where he wants him, leaning his weight down and down, slow and steady until Frank can't make himself breathe through the pain, seizing with it. All he can do is tense and tense, unable to move or speak more than to breathe and blink, and somehow it doesn't feel like mercy at all when Stryfe's foot slides back and the pressure disappears entirely.

"I see why Nathan keeps you. Even defiant you're still such a good slut." 

“Well, I suppose you would know,” Nathan drawls from the doorway, and then several things happen very quickly. The telekinetic hold on Frank breaks as Stryfe is slammed backwards; Stryfe hits the mattress and bounces, springs screeching, as Frank is hauled to his feet and then off the ground, casually moved out of the way as Nathan crosses the room. Frank wants to get his hands on a gun -- there are plenty stashed around the room -- but Nathan in his head gives a firm command to be still, and Frank can’t possibly disobey.

The wild surge of guilt that builds low in his gut, too much like nausea for Frank’s liking, is soothed a little at almost the same time, wordless calming pushed into his mind along with Nathan’s order to hold steady. Nathan crosses the room at a lazy pace, Stryfe seeming to struggle to sit up, teeth grit as he strains his way upright. 

Frank can see the exact moment that the telekinetic hold breaks or is released; all the tension behind Stryfe’s struggle causes him to overshoot, graceless as he folds forward nearly double. When he sits up, he swings wildly at Nathan, what could have been a nasty roundhouse knocked harmlessly aside as Nathan comes to stand directly in front of his clone, serene in the face of Stryfe’s sneering anger.

Another attempt at a strike from Stryfe by way of an ugly, formless right hook, and Stryfe freezes in place, held as fast and sure as Frank had been held before. It's an obvious strain to both of them, leaving Frank to feel a fidgety sense of uselessness, ordered to stay in one place while Nathan struggles with his clone. 

Part of him is so unused to being still in any situation, in or out of combat, and the rest of him is so attuned to obeying commands from this man, leaving him to wrestle down the impulse to dive for a weapon and help.

 _Just watch_ , Cable tells him, his mental voice distracted and loud the way it gets when he’s too busy with something else to moderate his mental volume. _Be still, just watch._

Again, the telekinetic force drops, and Nathan lashes out almost casually and slaps Stryfe, open-palmed, across the face. Stryfe’s mouth drops open, brow furrowing in something like offense, and Nathan laughs, some strange combination of mean surprise, like he expected better from his clone, and hits him again, backhanded.

“You’ve always been such a _desperate_ slut, but this is a new low for you, Stryfe.”

Frank's been asked to deal with a lot of mentally-taxing, sanity-challenging visuals. Torture, preformed on him or by him. Drug-induced bullshit, hallucinations brought on by exhaustion or dehydration or telepathic fuckery. He once took a knife to the gut, fighting without body armor, and woke up hours later, left for dead by his enemy, to a stomach black with heavy, industrious flies that barely lifted off him at all when he struggled to his feet. 

He'd worked a three-day-straight job with fucking Deadpool. He's seen plenty that would have broken less sturdy men.

Watching Nathan slap his perfect double across the face and call him -- a good deal more playful than that slap might have suggested -- a desperate slut is somehow hurling him toward mental shutdown faster than he'd ever experienced before.

He's had this nightmare in recent days, except it absolutely did not include Nathan looking at his clone Like That. There was a lot more shooting in his nightmare. A lot more anger.

Admittedly, Frank's pretty sure anyone who didn't _know_ Cable would assume that he intended to do real violence here. The size of him, the way he stands over his clone, now sprawled on Frank's bed with his hand pressed to the cheek Cable had stuck. Nathan looks tense, coiled and ready to snap into action, and everything from the angle he holds his arms to that mean, tight little smile might be taken for true hostility, but Frank _knows_ him, he knows that stance and that smile.

The smile is aimed at him often enough, after all.

"What did you think, it was some brilliant scheme to slink back into my life to fuck my wife," Nathan asks, lip curled in that particular sneer that promises a thrilling, mean surprise on the near horizon. "Did you think it was going to be some kind of challenge? Good news for you, Frank's a bigger slut that you are. The only challenge you could have run into was finding an open slot in his day planner."

Frank's face is burning, teeth grit, throat tight against the hungry noise that wants to escape, his reaction to that particular tone of Cable's voice so ingrained it's practically an instinct. Left standing by the shuttered window, Frank feels distinctly voyeuristic, despite it being his own room and the blatant encouragement to watch. 

"I can't believe you," Nathan says, laughing now, amused. "He'll put out for anyone. His brain's nothing but a supermassive index of fantasies in which he gets knocked up by various men he works with. Getting him to fuck you wasn't some _feat_ you managed. The only thing special you did was find a night he had free."

Frank's never watched someone do this. Or, at least, not in person. Not close up, not in the same room. He's certainly never been the one being talked about. Porn only prepares the mind so much, and fantasies are never quite enough to anticipate from either. 

He's had Nathan talk to him like that, smug and amused and in complete control. The fact that Stryfe is just sprawled out on the bed, fingers pressed to his slapped cheek and allowing it is interesting but mostly Frank feels like he's going a little crazy because he'd have thought...

Nathan had never been upset about Frank's confession, though, had he? Rather, he'd come across as almost... excited. No disappointment, no anger, his only concern over how upset _Frank_ had been about the whole affair. He’d have thought, the way Stryfe had spoken, the way it seemed so intensely about pulling his relationship with Nathan apart, that if the two came together it’s be explosive. Violent.

But it’s not, it’s… there’s a certain tension, a sense of conversation happening that Frank’s not party too, but nothing dramatic. No one’s pulled a weapon, no one’s hauling back to punch or even hit like they mean it. The violence there _is_ seems performative, something almost rehearsed, like they’ve done this before, an old game with certain moves both of them know how to make, Frank a wild card thrown in the mix.

Why the fuck that’s so exciting, Frank doesn’t know. 

The hardest part of it is, the two of them look so alike. It's a weird kind of dream, except he's completely awake. Nathan standing cold and cruel over his evil counterpart, a note-perfect clone who wants to make Nathan suffer by breaking up his relationship.

Fucked up. It's very fucked up. Stryfe opening his mouth and letting Nathan fill it with two fingers, closing his lips around them and not biting but _sucking_ only makes it look more fucked up, because somehow Nate's the one gloating and dramatic, Stryfe not exactly eager but certainly not struggling as Nathan gets his fly open. 

"So fucking eager for my seconds, Stryfe. You're always after the scraps. But I know what a slut like you really wants."

It really feels like he should look away, or leave, and yet he knows, _knows_ that it's all a show. It's for his benefit, familiar in an odd way. It makes his chest feel tight with a sort of anxiety he has no idea what to do with, like he’s about to climb out of his own skin if he doesn’t act.

"He thought you might be some kind of threat, but you're not. Just a lonely, desperate little slut looking for someone to warm you up for a few minutes," Nathan goes on, and Frank registers as Nathan's fingers trace over the angle of Stryfe's cheekbone and Stryfe only twists his face up in a snarl that seems far from sincere that Stryfe hasn’t _really_ fought this at all. "I want Frank to see how pretty you look sucking my cock. You want him to never be able to stop thinking about you? Show him what a good toy you are."

Frank realizes with a dull sort of horror why Nathan sounds so familiar and it's jarring -- like this, right here and now, Nathan sounds like Stryfe had sounded in that hotel room, telling Frank he understood that it was his nature to want someone to own him, that he wasn't disgusting but just weak, just human, looking for the right master. He'd hated it, largely because it had gotten him so hard so fast, listening to that voice purr smug, filthy bullshit.

He'd also loved it, more than he could admit to himself and in ways he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to process through and come to any kind of understanding with himself about. It had burned through him, a rage so intrinsically erotic that it utterly shut down his ability to keep himself from obeying Stryfe's directions. 

There's a distinct difference between coercion and desperate compliance, and what Frank sees when Stryfe moves again of his own accord, is very clearly a starved, eager compliance. Even Stryfe calling Nathan a bastard sounds perfunctory, and two seconds later his hand is clutching Nathan's hip and his lips are tight around Nate, sucking his cock like it's the only thing that matters. 

He shouldn't be watching this. He's not even sure it's something that should be happening, but since it is and it's clearly not about him, he shouldn't be looking. He shouldn’t like it so much. Shouldn't be memorizing the way Nathan clutches into thick grey hair or the satisfied, wet sound of Stryfe moaning as Nathan fucks his face. 

He no more than closes his eyes than Nathan's telekinesis connects solidly against his cheek, slapping him, demanding attention. "I said I want you to watch," he snarls, not missing a stroke as he pulls on Stryfe's hair and fucks that sweet, wet mouth. 

_Don't you wish you were the one standing here?_ Stryfe asks, mental voice hazy and distracted as he swallows around Nathan's cock. There's drool leaking from the corner of his mouth, and Frank again feels that surge of heated appreciation. For all the control Stryfe seemed to have in everything leading up to this, for all his overly-pretty, too-well-put-together vanity, he's not in control of that bit of drool. 

He's not in control of Nathan's grip on him, or the way his fingers twitch to grip at Nathan's hips, and something about that, about seeing Stryfe with no control, makes Frank's legs feel weak and his brain want to totally shut down. 

Maybe it's because he's right. Of course he's right. Frank's thought about it, less than he might have but far more than he'd ever want to admit, putting that smart mouth to better use. Stryfe biting at his throat and kissing like it was what he existed to do gave Frank plenty to work with, some lonely nights when the usual jerk-off fantasy wasn't doing it.

Of course, he barely lets himself acknowledge that than something -- some _one_ \-- hooks onto the idea and drags it to the front of his head. A dozen vague, horny ideas, chiefly composed of Stryfe holding him down, _tying_ him down, mouth and hands and telekinesis used to keep him on edge. No control, no release, completely at the cruel mercy of a man who took his greatest pleasure in Frank's denial. 

"Listen to him," Nathan huffs, mocking as his gaze flicks up from where he's been watching his cock disappear into Stryfe's mouth. "You better not cum, Frank. I've got a job for you when I'm done here."

Which is a completely unfair and also counterproductive thing to say in a situation like this while expecting Frank to _not_ get himself off, but sure.

Flexing his hands at his sides, wishing he'd at least gotten as far as getting his damn pants back off before this started, Frank does his best to keep himself still and calm. His pajama pants are going to be soaked through before this is over, he can tell that already; his cock is so hard and he's always run wet when something really turns him on. This is a sight that's beyond anything he's prepared for, and he's desperate to be touched, or at least allowed to touch himself.

Nathan's got his fingers curled hard in Stryfe's hair, gripping tight enough that it's got to be painful for the clone, but every but of his posture and expression, every glancing brush of Stryfe's mind to Frank's, screams enjoyment so clearly it's impossible to miss. There's no way to ignore the fact that however forceful Nathan is being, it's not because Stryfe's struggling.

Rather, it seems like Stryfe _wants_ it like this, wants to be broken in and made useful to Nathan, regardless of his own comfort. It feels like he craves it, his mind pressing irregularly against Frank's with an eagerness that belies how he makes Nathan drag him into position. He's compliant in that he doesn't need to be restrained, and is obviously not being coerced, but then he holds himself so rigid that Nathan has to force him to the angle he likes.

And the look on Nathan's face, that smug, superior expression of pleasure, obvious enjoyment being taken from having to use some measure of force. The knuckles of his flesh hand are white with tension as he clutches at Stryfe's hair to keep him just where he's wanted, and he pushes in just far enough to make Stryfe's throat work, never quite giving him everything. 

Nathan always looks good in control but this is something else to Frank. He's been rough with Frank, even mean on occasion, but Frank's never gotten to stand back and just watch him work. It looks good, looks _damn_ good, and Frank's not sure if Stryfe being Nathan's perfect double is part of why it looks so good, or if that's a whole separate category of mind-blowingly hot.

What he does know, beyond any doubt or uncertainty, is that his brain is only going to be able to handle so much of this before it leaks right out his ears. Nathan telling him sternly to _hold still_ when his hand twitches to touch himself doesn't actually do much to help, shockingly. Neither does Stryfe's wordless sense of nasty amusement. 

In fact, having their hazy, pleasure-drenched thoughts skating over his is the opposite of helpful, at least in terms of keeping from embarrassing himself.

Shivering, needy and weak, he bites his tongue and tries to keep still, keep his hands at his sides, until it's too goddamn much. Gripping himself through the thin cotton of his sleep pants, he makes a noise through his teeth that's too pitiful to think too hard about, and swallows fitfully before trying to speak.

“Nathan, please."

Nathan’s eyes on his are hard and bright, his hips slowing to rock shallow into Stryfe’s mouth. He’s done that to Frank, too, teasing them both, pushing the the very frayed edge of tolerance. Frank feels his breath catch in his throat and grits his teeth, knowing Nathan can hear how bad he wants to cum, how much he needs it, desperate for him to give permission. 

Which makes it all the more crushing when Nathan shakes his head, denying him. “Hands down. I already told you, there’s work for you when I’m finished.”

There’s nothing Frank can do to help the whine that works past his clenched teeth, a thin and ragged sound as he forces his hand to relax and drop back to his side. He can’t cum like this, he knows -- he could cum if he was allowed to touch himself, so fast it’d be embarrassing later, but just from watching, there’s not a chance.

It’s cruel, told to stand to the side and play observer, a silent witness watching Nathan yank on Stryfe’s hair and fuck his mouth and, when Stryfe tries to drop his hand down into his own lap, casually slap him. It’s cruel, and Frank _likes it_ , likes it the way he ends up liking everything Nathan gets him to do. 

He can feel Stryfe pushing into his mind, ragged and distracted and so horny he can’t seem to find any coherent words to express his mockery, which makes the impression of his smug amusement feel awfully funny to Frank. Where Nathan is a light, ghosting touch as he pressed against Frank’s thoughts, a visitor, Stryfe is hard-edged, barging in as though it’s his right, intrusive and glaring. 

Feeling them both is a little overwhelming, makes something at the base of his skull prickle. That helps, even with the bristling sense of their arousal sparking against his own, keeping him from disobeying Nathan the way he still wants to. 

“There’s my good girl,” Nathan growls, pressing in deep enough that Stryfe chokes, the angle bad, a ghost of discomfort lancing through Frank as Stryfe actively tries to push Nathan back. “Not like this needy bitch, you know how to listen, don’t you Frank?”

Squirming, feeling too much like a junkie watching others shoot up, wanting but not allowed to share, Frank nods. He suddenly can’t trust himself to speak, able to feel Nathan’s orgasm building in the hazy place where their minds meet. He’ll choke, or his voice will fail. 

Gripping tight to Stryfe’s hair, great fistfuls on either side of his head, Nathan holds Stryfe just so, never going far enough to choke him again. Frank’s not sure, when he speaks again, if Nathan is using words or telepathy; his eyes are locked on Nathan’s pretty cock pistoning in and out of Stryfe’s reddened lips, the gleam of saliva and the bob of Stryfe’s throat as he swallows. 

“Just as desperate though,” Nathan says. “You need it bad, don’t you? Be honest, Frank, tell me how much you need it.”

The words tangle in his chest, snagging in his throat, jumbled up messy in his brain. There’s so much noise in his head, not even thoughts; tactile feedback that isn’t his, wants and impulses fed into him from the other two. He can feel hair against his fingers where they’re clenched at his sides, mouth watering, throat tight and aching, and he needs to answer but speech is pretty far beyond him at the moment, which seems, somehow, to be exactly what Nathan wants. 

"He promised to fuck me," Frank blurts, not an answer at all, just the first, more pressing thing he can get to go fully formed from brain to mouth. His face goes hot, his hands clench into hard fists, and he can _feel_ the way the words hit Nathan, feel Stryfe's giddy, smug satisfaction, all layered over his own molten mortification, and it's _good._

It's got no business being so good, but it's so mind-numbingly _good_ it makes his toes curl. He's not really surprised to see Nathan bite down on his lip, the way he does when orgasm hits him hard and sudden, worrying it as his metal hand slips to the back of Stryfe's head to yank at the hair, holding him so he has no choice but to angle his face up at Nathan as he steps back and jerks himself in short, efficient motions. 

For all the tension in Nathan's grip, for all that he looks to be holding Stryfe forcefully in place, Stryfe simply closes his eyes and opens his mouth, expression blissful as Nathan's cum stripes his face.

Standing at the foot of the bed, outside the scene and yet somehow part of it, Frank's hands ache and his head is cloudy. He thinks, with mortifying clarity, that it's a horrible waste to cum on that pretty face when Stryfe had so clearly been happy with a cock in his mouth.

He knows for a certainty that Nathan heard him just by the way his head snaps up, his smile slicing across his face. Stryfe simply looks smug when Nathan lets go of his hair, sitting on the bed with cum gleaming on his face, lips all red and plush, swollen. 

"We wouldn't want to be wasteful," Nathan drawls, backing away another step as he casually shoves his jeans down further and steps neatly out of them. "Come on, get over here and clean him up."

And Frank's never been a man burdened with a particularly vibrant imagination, but he doesn't need Nathan to pull this particular filth out of the shadows of his mind. He wants it, enough that it makes something stupid and possessive in him bristle up mean when Stryfe raises his hand to his face and swipes up a finger-full of Nathan's spend and pops it in his mouth.

It's vindicating when Nathan swats the back of Stryfe's head, chastising him. "That's for him, homewrecker."

Stryfe's look gets Frank moving as much as anything, and he finds himself climbing on the bed, going down on one knee as he slides one hand along Stryfe's square jaw, angling his head to one side as he ducks the rest of way down and licks along his cheek. It's disgusting and Frank's going to die if he gets any harder, lapping Nathan's cum off Stryfe's face like a dog, wet and messy. 

It's nasty, and somehow massively demeaning, and he can feel Stryfe hitching himself against the leg Frank's got wedged between his thighs, looking for friction. As uncomfortable as Frank is in thin cotton pajama pants, Stryfe's in tailored jeans and just as hard, and Frank almost feels bad for him. The pathetic little whimper when Frank shifts his knee back on the bed, changing the angle he's braced over Stryfe at so the clone can't get the contact he's looking for is delightful, and so is the growling noise of interested appreciation from Nathan when Frank licks over Stryfe's lips and then pushes his tongue between them, sharing the taste.

Big, hard hands scramble against his back, nails digging into the bare skin and dragging down in needy clawing stripes as Stryfe pushes up into the kiss, demanding control, taking what he wants. Like last time, he seems to lose patience much faster than Nathan ever does, probably too used to getting everything he wants when he wants it to have the kind of unbreakable patience Nathan has. Makes it feel that much better to force him to slow down, resist his demanding, make him work for it.

 _Fuck me,_ Frank thinks, unable to help it, unable to keep himself from _wanting_ it. It's what he was promised and it's still what he wants, he wants it hard and cruel the way he knows Stryfe would make it, wants his face shoved into the mattress and his ass fucked loose, raw and poorly prepped. He knows Nathan can turn pain into a savage sort of pleasure, and he's willing to bet Stryfe can do the same. 

Would he? Frank doesn't know, and he doesn't know if he wants him to. Maybe he wants it to hurt, the way it hurt when Stryfe put his booted foot over his cock and stepped down, crushing him to the floor. Pain that twists all on its own, no help needed, blossoming into pleasure so deep and expansive it would gut him.

"You promised," he growls against Stryfe's mouth, kisses him again, rough but still intent, still slow enough to make Stryfe bite in response. " _Promised_ , c'mon."

Nathan's hands are gentle and inexorable, pulling Frank firmly away. The noise Stryfe makes is so affronted, his face creased in an expression of childish outrage at the denial, that Frank almost doesn’t notice the sudden quiet of the noise that’s been buzzing in his skull. When Nathan presses a hand to one bicep, Frank automatically relaxes his hand, letting Nathan guide him to his feet and leave Stryfe on the bed alone. 

He’s breathing harshly, like he would after running a hard mile, and Nathan is a wall of solid warmth behind him, steadying. When Nathan nuzzles against the crown of his head, he exhales a slow breath, one hand grazing over the metal forearm locked around his waist before settling flat over the back of Nathan’s hand. 

It’s like being pulled back at the start of a fight, the same kind of brilliant energy lashing through him, burning as it goes. If Nathan lets him loose too soon, it would be too easy for him to throw himself right back on Stryfe, but Nathan knows better. 

Nathan always knows better.

Pressed against Nathan like this, Frank feels that desperate tension bleed into something more concentrated, more focused. Nathan’s mind, and only Nathan’s now, pets gently over his own, soothing that wild energy, not just winding him up but focusing him, aiming him like one of his guns, sights trained on Stryfe.

“You didn’t really think I’d sit back and let that slut fuck you in front of me, did you?” Nathan asks, softly chiding. It’s a different sort of mockery that what Stryfe manages, just as cruel but gentler, petting with the grain of his thoughts instead of clawing against it. “No one’s going to fuck my sweet girl without my permission, and certainly not some needy bitch who tries to sneak behind my back. I know my sweet wife is better than that.”

Frank makes a noise at that, and the lazy, smug grin on Stryfe’s face is certainly not the expression he was expecting. He would have figured anything Nathan said Stryfe would fight, that’s the sort of petty bullshit they seem to have going on; Nathan says the sky is blue and Stryfe calls it red, Stryfe says water’s wet and Nathan calls it dry. Childish pettiness turned to violent rivalry, Frank caught between, all of it twisted up into some kind of bizarrely arousing sex game. 

“You call me desperate,” Stryfe sneers, lifting his hips so he can shimmy out of his clingy tailored jeans. “If you weren’t shielding him I could set that useless slut of yours off with half a thought, Nathan.”

Behind him, Nathan clicks his tongue, soothing before Frank can really bristle. Stryfe reclining, naked and hard, hand tight on his own cock as he sprawls across Frank’s bed like he belongs there, is a sight so enticing Frank has to close his eyes, his own dick aching, wet and hard. He _needs_ something, and maybe Stryfe’s not that far off because it doesn’t feel like he’s going to need much to set him off with or without a hand on him at this point. 

“I want to watch you fuck him for me, Frank,” Nathan says, soft and private, so quiet Frank’s not entirely sure it was spoken out loud at all. It only the sound of Stryfe turning over on the bed that leads him to think he did, but even that doesn’t make it a certainty. “Look at him, sweetheart, you think that’s the man who’s going to put a kid in you? You think he can give you anything I can’t?”

Obedient, Frank opens his eyes, breath catching in his throat at the sight of Stryfe on his knees, shoulders to the sheets with one arm slipped back between his legs, lube-slick fingers thrusting deep into his own hole. Frank’s bedside drawer is open, the bottle of KY tossed on the sheets at Stryfe’s elbow, leaking into the cotton. It’s a sight that brands itself into Frank’s mind, all that pretty muscle and perfect skin, gorgeous ass and talented hands, the happy little noises Stryfe’s making as he works himself quickly open. 

Big, rough hands, hold Frank still as formless telekinetic pressure slips beneath the waistband of his sleep pants, easing them down, finally freeing him of them so they pool at his feet. “He can’t give you anything, Frank, but he needs something from you. You wanna give him what he needs for me?”

It’s weird, fucked up, Stryfe twisting on his shoulders so he can angle a look back at them, make sure Frank’s watching. The sharp, bright look in his eye is one Frank has seen on Nathan’s face too many times to count, goading and playful and just a little mean. They look so alike, but personality-wise couldn’t be more different.

“Come ‘n give me what I _need_ , Frank.”

Until it comes to fucking with Frank’s head, Frank supposes. Or just fucking him in general. Both dead set on turning Frank into a dick-drunk idiot, desperate and slutty. 

Exhaling, too worked up to argue -- and who the fuck would argue at this point, the view he’s got here, asked to fuck this man? -- Frank nods and steps out of Nathan’s arms, two steps back to the bed. 

The second his hand brushes along the muscled planes of Stryfe’s back, the harsh, starving noise is back, too much too fast in his head. It almost physically knocks him back, hand hand tightening on Stryfe’s skin for a moment, like he’s gripped a live wire and in the shock of it can’t let go. He understands suddenly what Stryfe meant about Nathan shielding him, understands too that Nathan’s either intentionally stopped, or physical contact really does play some part in how the telekinetic shit works.

He doesn’t really care which it is. 

All that really matters at this point is doing what he’s been asked; all that matters is getting himself lined up and sinking into that hot, tight hole. The psychic noise can’t compare to the babbled praise that pours out of Stryfe’s mouth, the ghostly touch of telekinesis like ghosts mirroring his own grip on Stryfe to his own flesh, the sudden dip of the mattress as Nathan sinks to sit beside them like he’s too overwhelmed to stay standing. 

All of it is so good, so much better than all the anxiety leading up to it should allow for, but like this Frank feels like most of his brain is shut off. For once, the animal part of him, the part that raises up and snarls for blood just about any time he’s close to anyone, is shut up and silent, defanged, perhaps, by the overwhelming psychic feedback from the other two. 

He doesn’t fool around, once he’s started. He shoves in fast and deep on the first thrust, earning a shocked but grateful noise from Stryfe, and from there he sets a rough pace. He knows Stryfe can take it, because _Nathan_ could and has taken it; more, Stryfe _wants_ to take it. Stryfe wants it hard and Nathan wants to watch Frank work his clone to exhaustion, and for the duration that’s all that matters to Frank. 

What they want, what he can do for them, how he’s the one who can get them there. That’s all there is in the world, just for a few fleeting moments, and it’s incredible. A high Frank can’t imagine any drug getting him to, better than adrenaline, better than Penthrox or poppers. 

For a moment nothing matters but the moment. The heat of Stryfe beneath him, around him; Nathan off to the side, watching; the grip of his hands on Stryfe’s hips, the warmth of his flesh and the perfect way Stryfe writhes back against him. Nathan’s telekinesis teases over him as he works, feeling up his chest, cupping his ass, petting through his hair while Stryfe just twists his fingers into the sheets, moaning and growling unheeded demands for more, for faster.

They’re both in his head, dumb animal noise, echos of pleasure that is only his because it’s too overwhelming for them not to share. Nathan is rapt, intense focus, hand petting over his own spent cock not because he wants to cum again but simply because it feels good; Stryfe is clawing, fitful grabs for more, greedy and starved, expanding and vanishing across Frank’s consciousness like fireworks, too overwhelmed to keep a steady projection through the noise Nathan’s making.

It’s the most confusingly erotic thing Frank’s ever experienced, glorious in how it totally blocks any other concern from reaching him. All that matters is the steady approach of his orgasm, the satisfaction of Stryfe dragging telekinetic nails down his back as he snarls and whines, dignity forgotten as Frank finds just the right angle and refuses to pick up speed. 

At some point, the telekinetic claws that had been digging invisible nails into Frank’s back and hips and ass falters, Stryfe’s entire body tightening up as he cums gasping and riding back on Frank’s cock. It aches, in some dull and undefined way, like fingers digging into a bruise or alcohol washing out a wound, undercutting and highlighting the pleasure as Frank holds Stryfe where he needs him and chases his own end.

The bitchy commentary is gone, the biting insults, the mocking laughter. Stryfe just gasps and moans against the sheets, eager happy noises as Frank uses him. Beside them, a blurry form at the edge of Frank’s periphery, Nathan is breathing loud and heavy, shifting restlessly as he rumbles filthy praise, out loud and straight into Frank’s head. 

“Go ahead, sweetheart, you’ve done so well. Give it to him, fill him up, go on.”

As if there was any other option. Frank sinks in deep, gasping some ragged not-word as his eyes squeeze shut, and that’s the end of it. He cums so hard it blocks all other sensory input out, his mind a haze of sweet, empty white noise. 

It's good. All that agonized build up brought to something overwhelmingly satisfying, as if all the stress and tension in him has been wound up tight and the snapped clean. It's like a rope, stretched out fine and taut, cut with surgical precision exactly where it needs to be. His release feels earned, burning through him as his fingers dig bruises into trim hips and his heart hammers wild against his breastbone.

When it's over, he hits a wall of exhaustion so hard it leaves him dazed. Alone suddenly in his own head, he relaxes his grip on Stryfe and feels the man drop lazily onto the bed, concerned only with his own comfort, not Frank shaken behind him on his knees. And he is, truly, shaken, struck with a sense of something like horror, so enormous it can't be processed. 

Dimly, he's aware of a shiver working along his spine, starting low and working out into his limbs. He sags, strings cut, and lets his head drop, clenching his teeth so they don't chatter. 

He knows this feeling, though he hasn't felt it like this, not so strong or so intense, in years. Combat fatigue, like a roiling mass of self-loathing and anxiety, ugly messy guilt deeply buried beneath blinding apathy. Unchecked, it will rocket up through him into a sort of nervy, ugly anger, the sort that makes him sick with recklessness; he'll need a few days alone after all, after Nathan gets tired of this, after Stryfe fucks off again to do God-only-knows.

Thought feels slick, impossible to seize or sort, and in spite of the bed crowded by three heavily built men Frank feels isolated, intensely alone. He's familiar with the feeling, the world blooming out around him as he comes back down from a rush. It's a comfort he can't quite define, too big for words with his mind all whipped up like this, when big, gentle hands catch him by the shoulders and ease him back. 

Nathan pulls him carefully down, easing him like he's injured, to sit beside him, leaning into his chest. The sound of Nathan breathing, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest, is soothing enough that Frank doesn't struggle, and the smell of him makes him feel almost embarrassingly secure. When he closes his eyes, he can feel Nathan slipping into his head, a gentle, golden wave of calm that pushes away the fog, helping him relax against that warm body. 

When Nathan murmurs the suggestion, Frank gratefully closes his eyes, tired. His legs are folded awkwardly beneath him, and when he stretches them out they end up draped over Stryfe's.

Frank can't remember the last time a fuck knocked him on his ass like this. Years, he knows; lifetimes ago. Never with Nathan, though the big telepath handles it with easy grace. Lieberman, he thinks; Lieberman would have been the last, always able to break him down like no one else before or after. 

He pushes the thought away even as it rises to the surface; he doesn't want it, and he certainly doesn't want it with an audience here to watch him try and fail to process it. Thoughts of Lieberman were boxed up and buried long ago for good reason, and he carefully packs mental dirt over this one, shoving it deep even as he feels Nathan's interest drawn by the quiet spike of anxiety. 

Eyes shut, breathing slowing, Frank listens to the sheets shift and feels Stryfe move, pulling himself out from under Frank's sprawled legs. The mattress complains as Stryfe sits up; the bottle of lube is tossed noisily out of the way, bouncing off a wall before the bedside drawer squeaks open and it drops inside. Frank doesn't need to open his eyes to know Stryfe tossed it carelessly and Nathan used that convenient telekinesis to put it away; he can feel Nathan's amused annoyance as he deals with it, and Stryfe is immediately out of the bed, grabbing his things, pulling his clothes on.

It’s good he's leaving. Good Frank doesn't have to tell him to, good he's got at least that much decency. Bad enough Frank's shook up like this, he doesn't need the teasing he knows Stryfe would offer as pillow talk. 

Stryfe's fingers are softer than Nathan's, shockingly gentle when he leans over the bed and pets over Frank's hair. Frank doesn't know if it's Stryfe's idea of kindness, or if it's meant to be an insult that Stryfe doesn't shove himself loud and rude back into Frank's head. Or maybe Nathan's shielding him again, it's hard to say.

What he does know, is that Stryfe pets soft over his head, says out loud that he had a good time in a tone that's only half as sharply mocking as Frank thinks he usually sounds. "I'll call you next time I'm in town," he says, and that's closer to what Frank expects, a dark sort of promise, and it goes a ways in showing just how much this has taken out of Frank that he doesn't come back swinging at that.

And then, before he can settle on whether he ought to _make_ himself have a reaction to that right now, Stryfe is gone. Not out the door, no sound of fading footsteps, just gone, like Nathan's gut-wrenching 'bodyslide' technology without the cute little catchphrase. 

Frank's together enough to think that's something that could prove to be a problem, but when he tries to open his eyes, Nathan just tightens his arms around him, ducks his head and kisses his hair. 

"Beds a mess," Frank says after a while, but that's not really what he want to talk about. "Not gonna be able to sleep here."

"We can fix it later," Nathan says, and Frank thinks Nathan means more than about the bed. He's grateful, in a dim, tired way, for the telepathy; he always is in these moments where he's too fucking tired to string words properly together. "I'll help you sort it all out, you know that."

And Frank does; he does know that. Part of him knows he ought to argue, or at least make himself pull away and establish some distance, settle himself without Nathan touching him. He can't rely on anyone else, that shit never works out for him, it's better to force himself to be functional until Nathan leaves and deal with his own bullshit later.

Except Nathan's arms around him are warm, and the smell of Nathan, sweaty and satisfied, makes Frank feel peaceful in a way he never is anymore. There's too much complicated bullshit around all this, with Stryfe, with mind-reading, with the elaborate set-up of a relationship he's encouraged to step out on, but just like he's in no place to deal with thoughts of Lieberman, he's in no place to pick apart the details of what's happened here tonight.

Maybe he never will be.

"I think we should get some sleep," Nathan says softly, politely not giving his opinion on Frank's thoughts, or the way Frank shoves them, unaddressed and unsolved, into the back of his head for later. "I've got a place in Hell's Kitchen. We could slide there for tonight."

This place is burned now, whether he likes it or not. He can salvage it as a backup, maybe, and the storage sheds are going to be hard to replace if he actually settles on abandoning this property entirely. There's that place he's been putzing around with in Union City, that might work for a new central hub. Might work better; no dockworkers to worry about if he forgets to draw the blinds. 

None of that's getting done tonight. He can figure it out tomorrow, what's best, what's not worth the effort.

"Yeah," he says, nuzzling the side of his face against Nathan's chest, feeling the steady, easy beat of his heart. "Kitchen sounds fine for tonight."

Another kiss pressed to the crown of his head, Nathan sighing against his hair. “To have and to hold,” he says, quiet and sincere in a way that tells Frank he's not really trying to push a joke. It makes something big and uncomfortable push its way into Frank’s chest, something scary and temptingly soft he knows he can’t safely address. "For better, for worse.”

There’s a lot there, a lot Frank doesn’t know how to unpack or deal with, not in the dark, not without sleep and a good deal of thought. But the core of it, the base of it, is soothing in a way that makes Frank feel both deeply pleased and vaguely guilty, and he decides to hold on to that, rather than bury it with everything else.

“Thought we were gonna get some sleep, Summers,” he says, and feels Nathan smile. 

Maybe all of this is fucked up. Maybe he should have done all of this differently, or not at all. It doesn’t rightly matter; he got more than he’d asked for and now it was done. All he can do is move on to the next thing, and with Nathan’s arms around him, warm and secure, it seems pretty okay that the ‘next thing’ should be to get some sleep, worry about the rest by the light of day.


End file.
